


if you whisper to death it whispers back

by Lytri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Death Magic, Grey Harry, Harry Potter is Hadrian White, I hate to do this but there's a chance this is Slow Burn, Knights of Walpurgis, M/M, Master of Death Harry, Necromancy, Obsessive Behavior, Or maybe Dark Harry, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Harry, Reincarnation, Suicide, Time Travel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Transmigration, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, just in the prologue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lytri/pseuds/Lytri
Summary: The Final Battle went far worse than expected, leaving Harry alone in the aftermath. Desperate, he performs a ritual to go back in time, just not as himself. However, the time he ends up in is far from what he intended. Unsure of what else to do, he finally decides to go back to Hogwarts.Tom Riddle is instantly obsessed.(Might edit the summary at some point when I have a better idea of where I'm going with this)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 102
Kudos: 988
Collections: Top-tier HP/TMR Fics





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really shouldn't have started another story but a new one was just nagging at me, and who am I to deny?
> 
> Warning: Suicide

**Prologue**

Before the Battle, Harry hadn’t thought he could ever tire of the endless sprawling halls of Hogwarts despite wandering through them in the odd hours of the night, mind drifting from all responsibilities and fears, for what must have been over a thousand times. 

When he had just been a boy, hardly able to believe that magic existed or that there was a place in which he belonged, his first impression of Hogwarts had been of a looming, foreboding castle. It had been both awe inspiring and terrifying, and he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself (he still doesn’t know what to do with himself now, over a decade later, either). In time he had learnt to love Hogwarts, the castle soon becoming what he would have called home. 

It was the place where he made most of his happy memories despite everything he had to go through there. But now all memories of Hogwarts were tainted, and he could hardly think of the place without thinking of death; of children strewn about the floor as if they were discarded toys, pale and lifeless like porcelain; of blood pooling onto the floor, still warm, seeping through the bottom of his shoes and through his socks to permanently tattoo his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed; of Hermione and Ron, glassy-eyed and empty, resting in each other's embrace, together to the very end. 

No, he didn’t think he could bring himself to return to Hogwarts quite yet, despite it being years since he stepped foot there. 

He took in a shuddering breath, rolling onto his side in bed. He wondered how many days it had been since he last left Sirius’ old bedroom. He knew that it wasn’t healthy, staying cooped up and never even stepping a foot outside or contacting anyone, though there was hardly anyone left to contact. 

If only Hermione could see him now. She would be lecturing him as if he were still that schoolboy who was reluctant to study or do homework or really anything other than fool around. How he wished he could go back to simpler times.

What he wouldn’t give to have Hermione scold his ear off again.

Things had been . . . tense with Ron and Hermione for a while before the Battle. It had started out with the little things at first. Ron would make a snide comment or two about his fame and privilege, and Hermione would belittle the suggestions he made. And then it just sort of escalated from there. Suddenly they had begun to treat him as if every other word that spilled from his mouth was a lie or exaggeration, and it wasn’t just Ron and Hermione. It had felt like everyone regarded him as a lying, attention-seeking brat, not just Snape with his bitter and scarred heart.

It had hurt. It had really hurt. It had felt almost like a betrayal, their words and actions worse than anything Voldemort could ever do. They were supposed to be the Golden Trio, best friends through thick and thin, but it had felt like whenever problems arose he was always the one to blame. 

But now they were dead. And while the feeling of betrayal still lingered, adding another chip in his heart that would never be fixed, he still missed them. It was stupid and irrational and silly, and he didn’t know if he would ever truly forgive them for everything, but Merlin he missed them. He still loved them. 

He ran a hand over his face, weariness etched into every muscle. 

He really should be doing something other than laying in bed and brooding about the past all day, but it was hard. Everytime he decided to stop wallowing in self misery, slipping on his robes with all intentions of going outside, he would stop, frozen at the door, his hand outstretched for the handle but never touching. And then he would turn around and walk back to his room, disrobing and crawling back into bed. 

How low he’s fallen. The great Saviour of the Wizarding World, Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort, too scared to leave his own fucking house. What Gryffindor bravery? What unwavering resolve? 

What a coward he’s become. 

But there was no point in doing anything anymore. The Wizarding World was saved but the people who mattered weren’t. 

He glanced at the mirror beside the bed, taking in his bruised eyes and sickly pallor. He was a mess, having let himself waste away into a mere shell of his former self. Hermione and Ron would be so disappointed in him. 

Here he was, tossing away their dying wishes for him to live like an ungrateful bastard. 

He sat up furiously, tossing the covers aside and stood up. Roughly opening up his closet, he pulled out a dark set of robes and hastily put them on. He took a deep breath and walked out, taking determined steps towards the main door. He took another deep breath, staring at the dark wood as if it were a Dementor and reached a shaky hand out. Triumph flashed in his eyes for a moment when he managed to grab the handle but quickly turned to frustration when he could not turn it. 

‘Come on, Harry. Buck up! You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?’ said Harry, squeezing the handle tighter and tighter until his hand hurt and something deep within him felt like it broke. Quieter, nearly a hoarse whisper this time, ‘Aren’t you?’ Minutes stretched by, Harry standing there with his hand gripping the door handle, before he released his grip. 

‘Fucking coward!’ He slammed his fist into the door, relishing in the pain and hurt he inflicted on himself. Anger welled up in his chest like a wild tiger pacing in its cage, the insistent urge to lash out nearly unbearable. When a few moments passed his fist finally loosened and he slid down onto the floor, anger all but dispelled. Instead an endless chasm of hopelessness and despair opened up in its place. 

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Is this my life now?’ He stared out blankly, leaning against the door for what must have been hours, lost in his mind. 

‘No. No, there _has_ to be something I can do.’ He stood up, briefly taking notice that it was dark outside, and stormed towards the library. ‘Kreacher!’ called Harry when he was amongst the extensive collection of tomes that were collected throughout generations.

‘What be’s Master Harry wanting?’ said the old house elf after he appeared. 

Sirius had hated the elf, treated him like the dirt on his shoe, and initially he too had hated the elf. But Harry has spent a long time doing nothing but thinking about the past and his own actions. He no longer could overlook the faults of the people most close to him and had finally started to form his own thoughts and opinions. Such a development had been far too late in his opinion, but it was better than never at all. 

The house elf had been an Ally in the Battle, and as bitter as the house elf still was he wouldn’t toss Kreacher out or treat him badly just because his Godfather hated the elf. That was not the kind of person he wanted to be. 

Determination set into his shoulders as he looked Kreacher in the eye. ‘Find me every book on rituals and time travel in this library, please . . . And I mean every book. I don’t care if the magic is pitch black.’ He paused for a moment before adding, ‘And bring the family Grimoire as well, please.’

Realisation dawned in the house elf’s eyes and he tugged at one of his long ears. ‘Kreacher be doing’s so.’

*

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, his shoulders hunched over a giant tome. What must have been hundreds of books were stacked on the desk and floor all around him, each one bearing various colourful bookmarks that stuck out of the pages. Stray scraps of paper were strewn about the floor, some crumpled and others looking like they had been stomped on. 

He leaned back, dull green eyes just staring at the ceiling for a moment. It had been months since he began researching ways to go back in time. Endless months of dead ends and getting absolutely nowhere. He was certain he looked a right mess, even worse than when he only lounged about in bed doing nothing. Probably a mix between an inferi and a mad scientist or something equally as ridiculous. 

He wasn’t going to give up, however. He was done being a coward. Even if he still couldn’t leave the house, had to get Kreacher to fetch and buy and ‘borrow’ books from his vaults and the outside world, he would not give up. There was only a small, sliver of a chance that he would somehow find or create a way to go back in time, but he would chase after that small chance as if it were a golden snitch. 

‘Master Harry should be’s eatings some foods,’ voiced Kreacher from behind him. He hadn’t even realised that the house elf had popped into the room. 

‘Not now, Kreacher,’ grumbled Harry before putting his glasses back on to resume reading.

‘Kreacher be’s insisting.’

‘I’ll eat in a while.’ He dismissively waved his hand. 

‘Master Harry be’s saying that since yesterdays.’ The house elf almost sounded admonishing. 

‘Okay, well I really mean it this time,’ sighed Harry, his eyes still glued to the tome. 

‘If master Harry be’s saying so . . .’ 

Harry let a small, crooked smile appear when the house elf left. It was a bit ironic how a house elf sounded more genuinely concerned for his well being than nearly all of his friends and acquaintances. 

He sighed, closing the tome shut when he reached the last page. This book was useless as well, just like every other book before it. He had thought for sure that at least something important would be in it, considering that the author was extremely renowned amongst time-magic researchers, but she too only covered a broad range of theories with no real information on applying them. 

Setting the tome aside, he moved to grab the next book in line when a distinct chill pierced through his body. It was so cold it nearly burned, and it was very peculiar in the fact that he felt it predominantly in his spine of all places. 

Going absolutely still, he glanced around. He couldn’t see anything amiss but he had long learnt that that meant nothing. 

‘Hello?’ Only silence greeted him, and therein lay the problem. It was _too_ quiet. He pulled his chair out from under the desk, noting with rising alarm that the normal scraping of wood dragging on the floor did not sound. Now fully standing he experimentally tapped his finger against the desk. 

No sound either.

He knew he hadn’t gone deaf, since he could still hear the sound of his own quickening breath, but the eerie silence that threatened to drown him, for some reason, put him more on edge than Voldemort ever had. The strange atmosphere that his surroundings took on tugged incessantly at something visceral, and he could feel his body becoming taut, old instincts resurfacing and preparing him for battle. 

‘Hello?’

A raspy chuckle sounded, behind him and right in his ear, a chilly breath accompanying it. He whipped around, his eyes searching for the intruder but he was only met with the still and empty room. It was as if everything but him had been frozen. 

‘I feel so neglected, Master,’ said a voice in his ear, low and rough like rocks scraping against each other. It was behind him again. ‘I waited and waited, yet you never called.’ Despite the words being spoken the voice sounded almost amused. 

He whipped around again, alarmed when there was still no evidence of anyone else in the room. ‘Who’s there?’

Another raspy laugh. ‘My dear Master, blind to what he is.’ The voice turnt more serious, ‘Have you truly believed that anyone can walk away from Death like you do? My poor Master, so naive.’

‘. . . What do you mean?’

Suddenly what only could be described as a mass of curling and twisting shadows teared its way into existence, endless and consuming, and he was unable to look away despite how looking at it caused a deeply painful tugging in his soul. ‘What . . .’ And then suddenly he was enveloped in complete darkness, not even the slightest bit of light able to penetrate through. He turned in circles, noting how he could still see himself with no problem, but everything else had been swallowed by a dark void. 

Funnily enough, never before had he felt so at home.

‘The wand, the stone, the cloak; throwing them away doesn’t change anything. You met your destiny before destiny met you.’

‘Stop speaking in riddles! Who are you?’ 

‘I am that which claims all that comes to an end. Most call me Death, but you my Master shall call me friend.’

‘Death?’ said Harry incredulously. ‘What, have you come to reap my soul? Do you really expect me to believe that? Last time I checked I was still alive, and I’m quite certain I have at least a hundred more years to go.’

He wondered if he had finally snapped, the endless months of nothing but researching and staying cooped up inside whittling away at his sanity. He was honestly surprised that he hadn’t gone mad even sooner, considering he wasn’t exactly what one would call the epitome of mental health, what with his fucked up childhood and all. It was a miracle he wasn’t a bloody psychopath like Voldemort. 

‘A soul full of death in a body full of life. Have you ever heard of the Hollows?’

He shot a wary look around him before shaking his head, choosing to just go with the flow for the meantime. ‘No.’

‘One brings unimaginable power, the other brings the dead to the living, and the last hides the wearer even from me. Should all three be possessed by a single being, they shall bear the title Master of Death.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘All three have fallen into your hands, as they were meant to do.’

‘So you’re saying that I’m this . . . Death Master or something.’ Even though he couldn’t see anything, didn’t even know if the thing that claimed to be Death had eyes, he directed a face full of heavy skepticism towards the darkness.

‘The Master of Death, yes.’

‘And what does that exactly entail?’

‘What indeed. Many things, but the hands of Time have yet to start ticking. All the answers you seek have yet to exist.’

He ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to just tug at the strands and turn himself bald. He should have known the being that claimed to be Death would be a cryptic bastard. ‘Of course they don’t. Alright, fine. Then why now? Why contact me now and not sooner or later?’

‘Time has yet to begin but Fate has already started weaving; sooner is too late and later too soon. You seek to begin Time while only looking at Fate. Your research has born no fruit, thus I am here to give you a push in the right direction.’

‘How so?’

‘You are my Master, as such magic attuned to my nature holds what you seek.’ 

He made a face. ‘You mean Necromancy?’ His mind couldn’t help but wander back to the incident with the Inferi in the cave. They were very unpleasant and creepy, and they smelt absolutely awful. He had no desire to create any of his own nor see then ever again. 

‘All magics that deal in death are yours to wield, not just Necromancy.’

‘But how’s Death Magic supposed to help me? I’m trying to go back in time, not raise the dead.’

‘There is a ritual that allows the caster to relocate their soul into a body that has recently died. As my Master, I will make sure you go back to the time that needs you most.’ Oh good, Death had stopped being so cryptic. At least he wouldn’t have to decipher the true meaning of its words anymore on top of everything else. 

He gave a hum. ‘Okay, and what’s the downside?’ Such a ritual surely wouldn’t be risk free, otherwise everyone would be using the ritual to attain a sort of pseudo-immortality. 

‘My dear Master, there are no downsides, at least not for you. Even your magic will carry through the ritual, not just your memory and soul. Of course, it is required that you have a mastery over Death Magic. I will also not have a Master who is unable to use my own magics.’

He pursed his lips, deep in thought. While his past self would surely have gawked at the idea of learning and using something as dark as Death Magic, his reservations and disdain for darker magics had whittled down over time. And ever since he read the family Black family grimoire, which actually explained Dark Magic and put it into perspective, all remaining problems had disappeared. 

He had vowed to himself to find a way to go back in time no matter what. At this point he didn’t care if he sold his soul to the muggle Devil as long he achieved his goal. 

‘Alright. It’s a deal,’ said Harry firmly. 

‘All the books you will require shall show up later this evening.’

And just like that the mass of endless shadows disappeared as if they never were there, the silence becoming less crushing. He wasn’t entirely sure that what had just happened wasn’t just a hallucination his mind conjured; he had admittedly been very stressed out and frustrated and overall dead tired. Really, who ever came up with the silly idea of Death having a human master? It was preposterous. 

But as he turnt his gaze back on the desk, he paused. There on the surface lay a single, innocuous book. It simply read _The Magicks of Death_.

*

It had been many months since his encounter with Death, a little over a year since he began his research on travelling back in time, and he became intimately familiar with how much of a sadistic bastard Death was. The book that Death had left, a small and thin thing in all appearances, turned out to be magically enchanted to hold an infinite amount of pages. He really should have known better.

With each page he read a new one would appear, and he was certain that the ritual for him to go back in time would only show itself at the very end of the book - if there even was an end to it. Just as he was about to give up for the night, hardly able to keep himself from nodding off at his desk, his eyes snapped to the text when he idly flipped the page. 

_Athchollúchas Mínádúrtha: Ritual of Soul Transference_ it read. Suddenly he wasn’t tired at all anymore, the constant urge to let his eyes droop closed and lay down all but disappearing. He devoured the page, flipping to the next one and the next one with alarming speed, an almost mad, hungry glint in his green eyes.

Considering he had to slave over the book Death gave him, practising and remembering as much knowledge as humanly possible each day with only short breaks to take care of basic necessities, he could be forgiven if he was a bit emotional. He may also have shed a few tears (not that he would never admit to doing so). 

The ritual itself was very complex and didn’t spare any moments to explain itself, using way more technical jargon than he felt necessary. Even though he had become quite proficient in Death Magics, and was well on his way to being a true master of it, the ritual gave him an absolute headache. Gladly he could get all the ingredients easy enough, but the amount of minute details he had to follow were ridiculous, and he didn’t even want to get into the runes and symbols the ritual called for. 

Upon reading _The Magicks of Death_ it had become quickly evident that a lot of Death Magics apparently didn’t use the classic ancient runes that Hogwarts offered. It hadn’t been a pleasant surprise for him, considering he had had a limited knowledge of any kind of runes. So on top of having had to learn about normal ancient runes - he wished Hermione had convinced him to take the class when they were at Hogwarts - he also had to learn about death runes and life runes. 

He could understand the need to learn death runes, considering it was, well, _Death Magic_ , but seriously? Having to learn _life_ runes for _Death_ Magic as well? He may be a grown man but never before had he felt such an urge to see a book burn and throw a tantrum that would make Malfoy look like an angel. 

Shaking himself of his thoughts, he called, ‘Kreacher!’

‘What be’s master Harry wanting?’ 

He scrambled for a pen and picked up a loose scrap of paper from the floor. Dusting it off he then furiously wrote down all the materials and ingredients he would need. Slipping off the Black Lordship ring - he wouldn’t be needing it anymore - he rolled the paper and placed it inside the ring. ‘Get me all of the materials on this list. Use the ring to obtain the more . . . difficult ingredients.’ 

He paused, staring at the house elf intently. ‘When you get all the materials you will be free from my services. I am unsure about what will happen to this time, but in the event that this future still exists or I fail, I have prepared you the choice of going to Hogwarts or St Mungo’s.’

He wouldn’t voice it, didn’t need to, really, but he would miss the house elf. He had been his only real companion for the past few years, the elf probably being the only reason he hadn’t completely lost it, and he would even go as far to call him his friend. Yes, he would miss Kreacher.

The house elf took the list and gave a low, sad bow. ‘Kreacher being’s grateful. Kreach will’s not fail master Harry.’

*

He stood in the room, the walls and floor and even ceiling covered in carvings of runes and symbols. At the center of the floor was a shallow, empty pool made entirely out of silver. It too bore carvings of runes all over its surface, the metal glowing a soft orange under from the surrounding candles. It had taken him ages to the painstakingly carve everything, and his hands ached just thinking about it, but all that really mattered was that he could go back and fix everything. A little pain was nothing, and it was also reassuring to know that he would only have to - hopefully - do the ritual once. 

Earlier that day he had finished brewing the potion he would have to ingest. It was a repugnant and viscous black liquid, and he would rather not think about what exactly went into the potion unless he wished to throw up, but he would make sure he drank every last drop. 

He walked to the centre, standing in the middle of the empty pool, and began to chant. His eyes glowed and magic gathered in the air, a nearly tangible existence. If he wasn’t so focused on chanting he would have liked time to study the sharp, snapping magic that swirled around. The chant was extremely long and by the time he finished it the candles had already burned halfway through.

Pulling out the potion and a dagger he let his robes fall to his feet, shivering at the strangely chilly air. He downed the potion, the thick liquid sliding down his throat unpleasantly. He nearly gagged but he managed to drink everything down. Licking the stains on his lips, he tossed the bottle aside carelessly and closed his eyes, his mind a flurry of activity. 

Taking a deep breath he glanced at the dagger before pressing it against his throat with steady hands. Taking another deep breath he gave a quick, clean slice. He immediately dropped the dagger, the sound echoing throughout the room, before quickly falling to the floor. He could barely keep his eyes open, watching as the magic in the room became even more potent and his blood oozing out, spreading through the carved runes by some unseen force. 

His last thought was that humans contained a surprising amount of blood.

*

In a small muggle hospital a pair of brilliant green eyes opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athchollúchas Mínádúrtha - Forced Reincarnation  
> Of the little Gaeilge I knew I barely remember anything, so I had to use a dictionary for the ritual name. If there's something wrong like incorrect adjective placement or just outright incorrect words then just let me know.
> 
> Also the breaks between paragraphs are so large because I'm lazy and it's a pain to manually delete each space between paragraphs.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be a bit rough but I completed it and am posting it because I've been using it as procrastination, and hopefully this being written and posted will make me stop procrastinating. Hopefully. Once I get done with the work I'm supposed to be doing I'll read through and see if there's any glaring problems or inconsistencies.

Sally gave a sad sigh, her expression wary, as she stared down at the boy lying in the hospital bed. After weeks of painful wheezing and coughing the boy had finally succumbed to his disease, passing away quietly in his sleep. Gently brushing his hair back one last time she allowed herself to mourn for the loss of one so young. It was always so disheartening to watch a child die, unable to truly experience the joys and wonders of life, but it hurt even more so with this boy in particular. 

Hadrian White had been admitted in December of last year with a rare case of lung cancer, so pale and small and innocent, tugging at all her motherly instincts painfully. He had been a bright boy, interested in everything and so full of life that he nearly glowed with it. She had known that he wouldn’t have long, the type of cancer the boy had was particularly vicious, so she couldn’t help but do everything in her power to make his stay at the hospital more comfortable.

It was always the best and brightest ones that seemed to take seriously ill, she thought sadly. She couldn’t help but draw parallels between the boy and her mother, so strong and beautiful but also fated to die young. It just made her so mad, the injustice of it all, but she was powerless to do anything. That’s why she took up this job, wanting to make sure those destined to pass would not die sad and alone. It was the least she could do. 

Recently the boy’s symptoms had been getting worse, his slow decline in health suddenly taking a sharp turn for the worse. Suddenly he could no longer eat solid foods, or sit up by himself, or even have a full nights sleep without waking up coughing so hard blood came up. It was almost a mercy that he finally passed away, and she supposed God was kind to let him die so peacefully. 

She gave a small prayer for him, wishing him all the best in Heaven, before turning around and heading towards the door. Just as she went to step out, she heard a quick intake of air from behind her. She froze, completely paralyzed, the hair at the back of her neck standing up. Slowly she turned around, meeting a pair of unseeing, glowing green eyes.

She screamed. 

*

Harry groaned, waking up to hushed whispering and the familiar white of a hospital ceiling. 

‘And he suddenly . . . came back to life, you say?’ asked a nurse, fear evident in her voice.

‘Just like that,’ replied another nurse.

‘Get back to work you two. Martha, you should be in Ward C attending to patients, and you should be checking over your own patients, Sally, not gossiping like a pair of ninnies.’ another woman snapped, voice full of authority. 

‘Yes, Madam Windson,’ said the two women. 

Blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness out of his eyes, he turned his head to the right once full awareness set in, seeing a young woman with blond hair and blue eyes. She was pretty in a young, innocent kind of way, if not a tad bit unconventional in terms of facial structure. However, that was not what caught his attention and made him stiffen in surprise. 

Having never properly got a traditional muggle education, what with the Dursleys and Dudley after his hide and his accidental magic, and then Hogwarts, he was not the best person to ask muggle history questions to. On top of that, he has never stepped foot in a muggle hospital before, only having a vague idea of what the buildings should look like. That didn’t mean he was entirely ignorant, however, and what he knew for certain was that no one in his time, whether when he was a kid or adult, wore a uniform like the woman before him did.

The woman was looking at him with a strange sort of suspiciousness to her eyes, her hands gripping her clipboard in a death grip. ‘H-hello, Hadrian,’ stuttered the woman, trying to give a smile but ultimately falling flat, it looking more like she was in pain than anything else. ‘Are you feeling well?’

He swallowed nervously, his mind working a mile a minute. Obviously he was farther back in time than he expected, but the question was how far back? He had never seen anyone wear an outfit like she was, the dress blue with a large white apron or smock over it, and a strange and long cloth hat on her head. 

A small feeling of anger curled in his gut, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The ritual had worked, but it was supposed to send him back a couple years or so back, or maybe even to his childhood, not to this old-fashioned-looking muggle hospital. Death had  _ told him _ . . . no, wait, Death  _ hadn’t  _ told him. He had been so consumed with the idea that there was actually a way to go back that he didn’t pay attention to Death’s words as much as he should have. 

That  _ bastard _ .

He closed his eyes for a moment and bit at his lip hard, letting the sharp pain centre him and calm himself down. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions consume him. There were way too many unknowns. He didn’t know where he was,  _ when  _ he was, or whose body he took over. Considering how weak the body he was in felt, he didn’t want to mess anything up when he was so defenceless.

Choosing to forgo words for the mean time, he reopened his eyes and nodded his head. He couldn’t risk giving too much away at the moment. While he would have liked to just outright say he had amnesia, he didn’t know how the body he currently occupied died. Amnesia would only work if he had some sort of mental or brain disease. So while he might be acting completely out of character, a bit of unnatural quietness could be written off better than a complete one-eighty in personality. 

The woman was still looking at him with wary eyes, as if at any moment it would be revealed that he was some wild, feral animal. ‘That’s . . . that’s good. Are you having any more problems with breathing right now? Any pains in the chest?’

He shook his head no. 

An awkward silence stretched between them, and he was worried that he would have to break it before suddenly something in the woman’s eyes changed and she asked, ‘Are you . . . alright? Emotionally, I mean.’

He paused for a fraction of a second before nodding his head. It would be best for her to leave as soon as possible so he could have time to freak out without prying eyes, thank you very much. The last thing he needed was to go from the hospital to the insane asylum.

She didn’t seem to believe him, appearing to be naturally inclined towards not trusting him for some unknown reason, but nevertheless accepted his response. Suddenly she moved closer to him, reaching out her hand towards his face, and he could have hit himself but he was unable to suppress the flinch at her abrupt movements, his hand moving instinctually for a wand that wasn’t there.

It might have been a bit of an understatement that he was no longer comfortable around people anymore. Especially people that went inside his personal space. Who knew going from magic-hating relatives to fighting for his life to years of self isolation could make a person wary of other people?

‘They’re green,’ muttered the woman, her nails digging into his chin painfully, an almost hysterical laugh bubbling up from her throat. Again, ‘They’re  _ green _ .’ This time she was full out laughing, and he couldn’t help but think that rather than him  _ she  _ should be carted off to the insane asylum despite the sudden fear and unease that seized him.

‘What . . .’

‘Oh so you  _ can  _ speak, whatever the hell you are,’ spat the woman. Her other hand shot out to grip at the side of his neck, squeezing tightly but not enough to hinder his breathing, and now she was completely leaning over him, her face uncomfortably close. He tried to move but his entire body had no energy to it and it felt like trying to wade through mud. 

‘You were dead.’ Her voice was quiet and shaky but nothing could hide the sheer malice in it. ‘I know you were dead. What did you do to Hadrian? His eyes were  _ grey _ . What did you do to that poor boy, you devil?’ She was hysterical now, a mad frenzy in her eyes. 

The only thought going on in his head was  _ fuck _ , because if there was one thing he was well aquanted with it was being completely screwed over. Of course him occupying this body changed the bloody eye colour, because there just couldn’t be a day without something going wrong or the very fabric of reality would collapse. 

‘He was such a sweet, bright boy, you know? Innocent and too good for this world.’ She gave another hysterical laugh. ‘But  _ you  _ . . . there is something about you. Something evil. I can feel it in the air.’

She moved the hand holding his chin to his neck as well when he did not answer her and squeezed with both hands, and now he really couldn’t breathe. His body began to jerk, his heart pounding at his ribs, trying to escape. His hands scratched and clawed at her arms, real panic starting to set in. 

He couldn’t use his magic. It wasn’t gone, he knew, the familiar warmth in his core still ever present, but it was much weaker. It felt small and wounded and not quite at home yet. It was probably a side effect of the ritual, and he would have to investigate that later, but that wasn’t important at the moment because  _ this woman was still choking him _ , and he could feel black dots start to darken his vision. 

Distantly he heard a voice scream ‘Sally!’ and the sound of feet quickly hurrying closer before the woman - Sally, apparently - was ripped off of him. The relief was instant and he let out harsh coughs, but he was still able to take in sweet oxygen through gasping breaths nevertheless. 

There was shouting going on in the room but he couldn’t be bothered to listen to what was being said at the moment. How he wished he had his wand on him. He was pissed. That woman had tried to kill him, and while the him of the past would have shied away at the prospect of torturing someone else, never mind a muggle, the current him found the prospect quite appealing. 

He looked at her, channeling as much evilness into his own eyes when she looked back, and he relished in how she went pale and started to tremble. He let a smirk work its way onto his face as she was dragged away, never breaking eye contact. If she thought he was some devil, then fine. He would act the part of a devil, making her as unsettled as possible. It was the least he could do for what she did to him. 

A hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched away, startled out of his thoughts. Another woman, this time older and with darker colouring, stood next to him. She quickly removed her hand and then raised both of them in front of her. ‘Look, I won’t touch you. Everything's going to be alright, okay? You’ll never see that woman again.’ 

He just stared at her, unimpressed. 

He wanted a new hospital. 

*

Harry tossed yesterday's newspaper onto the floor and cradled his head in his hand. He gave a shaky laugh.  _ June of 1942 _ . He had gone back over fifty years into the past. And now he was in a muggle hospital during World War II in some muggle kid’s body.

It had been a few days since what he would call The Incident, and for the first time he was finally left alone after constant mollycoddling and mothering. It had felt pretty nice to be treated like the Queen of England, with everyone seemingly at his beck and call, but he also had business to take care of, and he very well couldn’t have taken care of it with everyone watching him like a hawk. 

He had adjusted well to the new body he inhabited. While when he first transferred over he felt weak and sluggish, he now felt even better than when he was in his original body, though he supposed part of that had to do with the fact he took over the body of a fifteen year old boy, despite it having been a gravely ill one. It seemed that his soul and magic just had to get used to everything, much to his relief.

But now that he felt completely healthy there was something very important he had to do, and it wasn’t getting out of the hospital and making it to the Wizarding World. That was very important too, and he would be doing that without a doubt, but right now he had a bone to pick with a certain being. 

‘ _ Death _ ,’ hissed Harry, putting as much venom and anger into his voice as possible. At first nothing happened, but then a chill filled the room, putting a halt to all sounds, and he was overtaken by a very familiar darkness.

‘Yes, my Master?’ As much as Death’s voice grated on the ears, harsh and monotonous, he would swear up and down that Death sounded  _ amused _ . It was a shame that Death had no tangible body, for he would have liked to wring its neck and give Death a taste of what he had to go through the moment he woke up in this body.

‘Why the bloody hell am I in 1942?’ 

‘That is where Time needed you.’

‘Don’t give me that, Death. You know very well what I mean.’

‘You wanted to change things. This time gives you the best chance.’

‘But Hermione, Ron, Sirius . . .’ He trailed off, unable to continue with his words. It was 1942 and none of his friends and family were even born yet. Call him selfish, but what was the point of going back if he couldn't even see his friends and family? Despite everything that happened, he still wanted to see every one of them again. He went back in time to make sure they didn’t die, but if he couldn’t even spend time with those he loved . . .

‘You can make sure they live. You can even see them if you just wait a little while. Or is it a long while? Mortals and their strange sense of time.’

‘It’s not the same.’ And it wouldn’t be. He would be an adult by the time Sirius was born, and close to middle aged by the time Hermione and Ron were. They wouldn’t share all his memories with them, both happy and painful, and they would never be close to him like they were in his time. Hell, he doubted they would even become friends, considering the awkward age gap that would stand in between them like a chasm. Maybe he would be more like a mentor figure, but he quite frankly didn’t like the thought of that. 

‘It’s not. But this is the time that you have been sent to. Do you regret it?’

He swallowed back the quick and biting comment he wanted to make. He would never see  _ his  _ loved ones ever again. They would live a different history, especially if he had any say in it, and he might never be someone important to them ever again. But they would  _ live _ , and, pushing away his selfishness, that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it? ‘No, never. I’d never regret trying to change things.’ He paused. ‘But a little warning at least would’ve been nice.’

‘I do not answer questions that have not been asked.’

He paused at that. He supposed Death had a point. It was his own fault for not asking for more details. Too impulsive and quick to do things without truly thinking everything through as always, he thought bitterly. It was a nasty habit, one that he would probably have to change if he wanted to make a difference. Messing with time was like playing with Fiendfyre, and one wrong step could lead to everything being consumed by flames. 

‘But . . . what am I supposed to do in this time?’ He nearly winced, hating how small and uncertain he sounded. But never before had he felt so utterly lost. He never planned to go back so far and all his carefully crafted plans had gone up in smoke. 

‘You will figure things out. You already have. What will happen has already happened. It is only a matter of things catching up.’

Harry scowled. ‘Well, what about my things, then? Like my wand?’

‘Your wand is already on you, as are my cloak and stone. You merely have to use your magic to call for them.’

With narrowed eyes he gathered his magic and tried to summon his wand. He felt a slight tingling on his hip, oddly enough, but he brushed it off as nothing. Suddenly there really was a wand in his hand, except that it wasn’t his wand. It was much too dark and bumpy and long. ‘This isn’t my wand.’

‘It is my wand, thus it is your wand.’

‘Fine. What about my other wand, then? Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches?’

‘Well, you may get that wand like any other witch or wizard does.’

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘And how am I to get to Diagon Alley? I don’t even know where I am. I don’t have any money, either.’ 

‘. . . Technically I am not allowed to directly interfere with mortals too much, but considering who you are, I shall make an exception this one time. And you do have money, and may get it like every other witch or wizard does.’

*

Harry had been dropped off in a shadowed and unpopulated alleyway of Knockturn Alley. It wasn’t Diagon Alley, but he supposed he couldn’t complain. Death had been nice and had actually transported him into the magical world with his Untraceable Extension Charmed bag from the future, saving him from who knows how long of a journey to the Leaky Cauldron. Also, considering how much he normally hated magical means of travel, it was a pleasant surprise that the way Death transported him was actually rather enjoyable. 

He supposed Death wasn’t that bad. Still a bastard, though. 

He transfigured his hospital gown into a more appropriate set of robes and peaked out at the main street. He wiggled his toes, very aware of the rather dirty ground beneath his bare feet, but he would just have to bear with it until he made it to Gringotts and then a clothes shop, hoping that no one paid too much attention to him. 

Feeling a bit like a muggle criminal avoiding authorities, he snuck out of the alleyway only to abruptly stop. There were . . . a lot of people on the streets. He hesitated as he stood just outside the exit of the alleyway, feeling reluctant to take a step further. 

Realistically, he knew that going back in time meant interacting with people, lots of people, but he had known that in an abstract sort of way. Now that he was here, standing before so many witches and wizards going about their business, he felt a certain nervousness. When he was at the muggle hospital he only had to interact and be in the presence of one or two staff at a time, but here he would have to be near many people, and he was certain that Diagon Alley would be even more crowded. 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had made a promise to himself and his loved ones that he would go back and change things for the better, and while he went back to the wrong time, he would still do everything in his power to fulfill that promise. He very well couldn’t keep that promise if he was afraid of a little crowd, now could he?

Stepping further out onto the street, he warily made his way towards Diagon Alley, relieved that, despite it being the past and there being different and missing shops, the general layout had not changed.

He kept his head down, concentrating on his steps and making sure no one stepped on his feet rather than the strange sensation of different magics swirling in the air. He didn’t remember being so sensitive to magic. He wondered if it was the body he inhabited or the whole situation with Death. Or maybe even the ritual he did had something to do with it. He supposed it didn’t really matter. 

By the time he was up the steps of Gringotts and entering the bank he was coiled tight like a spring. Being near so many people and feeling their magic everywhere, even being touched by their magic at times, had left him on edge and with a distinct urge to take a bath. He would have to get used to being so sensitive to the magic around him, or the ability would turn into a hindrance rather than an asset. 

Walking up to a particularly sour-looking goblin, he gave a stiff smile, unsure whether or not the magic swirling around Gringotts agreed with him or not. ‘Hello. I was wondering if I could have an inheritance test?’ 

From what Death implied he would have some sort of vault in his name. He wasn’t quite sure how that worked, considering he was definitely sure that Hadrian White used to be a muggle through and through. While there was the possibility of a squib ancestor, like the case with all Muggle-borns, he doubted anything would have been left for him to take, considering how the majority of Squibs were cast out.

The goblin sneered and looked him up and down, staring particularly long at his bare feet. ‘Do you have any money? It will cost ten galleons.’

He scowled, both at the goblin’s attitude and at the fact that an inheritance test was so expensive, considering that it cost more than his wand had, and pulled out the money from his bag. ‘Here.’

‘This way.’

They went deeper into the bank before stepping into a private room. At the centre was a large crystal ball nearly as big as the goblin leading him. The goblin pointed at the dagger beside it. ‘Cut your finger and put three drops of blood on the ball.’ 

Doing as ordered, he watched in interest as his blood didn’t stop on the surface but instead sunk through and dispersed in the crystal ball as if it were a sphere of water. When the three red drops seemed to disappear in the crystal ball it glowed a soft white. Suddenly a parchment appeared, hovering in the air in front of him.

Taking the parchment, he read the contents. 

_ Name: Hadrian White (Muggle-born) _

_ Father: Jack White (Muggle) _

_ Mother: Emile White  _ _ née Estell (Muggle) _

_ Heirships: Peverell (By Right of Magic) _

_ Vaults: 294, 577 (Locked) _

_ Properties: Peverell Manor _

_ Magical Aptitudes: Death Magic, Wandless Magic, Magical Sensory _

He gave a small laugh. The Peverells were probably rolling in their graves at having someone who technically has no blood relation to them and who used to be a muggle taking over their ancient and noble family. He was relieved to see that he had a house to live in, since he would rather not spend money on rent while he didn’t have an income even if the Peverells turnt out to be extremely rich. The magical aptitude towards Magical Sensory and Wandless was also interesting and he definitely planned to research about them.

Looking back at the goblin, he asked, ‘Can I take the Peverell Heirship without changing my name?’

He didn’t know very much about the Peverell family, but he did know that they were an old and extinct family that had been notoriously dark. They also had had a reputation for their prowess in Necromancy. He knew very well how much the Wizarding World judged people for their family background, and he had no wish to be associated with such a family as the Peverells, especially when he vaguely remembered that the Dark Lord Grindelwald had an unhealthy fascination with them. 

The goblin looked suspiciously at him before nodding. ‘Yes, that is possible. I will go get your Heirship ring.’

When the goblin came back, he took the Heirship ring and placed it on his right index finger. He shivered at the feeling of the ring’s magic interacting with him before merging with his own and settling. Staring at the symbol of a bisected triangle with a circle in it - he assumed that was the family’s emblem, even if he thought it a bit simple - he asked, ‘Can I hide this ring? Or at least conceal the symbol?’

The goblin gave him another suspicious look. ‘Yes, all Lord and Heirship rings have inbuilt enchantments to disguise or hide the rings. Just direct your magic to it with the intent to conceal or disguise, it will know what you want.’ 

Abruptly, he asked, ‘What is your name?’ He nearly winced when he realised how rude he had been with the goblin. In part it had been because of the goblin’s initial attitude as well as his discomfort from other people’s magic, but it still wasn’t the best way to treat those who handled his money and possessions. 

The goblin appeared taken aback, but eventually answered with a gruff, ‘Odgork.’

‘Then thank you, Odgork.’

*

A few hours later and many Galleons poorer, he gave a heavy sigh as he sat in his new room in the Peverell Manor, trying to not sneeze from the dusty surroundings, which had most likely not seen any cleaning for a century or two. He supposed he was just lucky that only dust and clutter seemed to be the major problem with the manor, rather than the entire building being condemned and falling apart. Knowing his luck a ceiling would’ve collapsed on his head while he slept. 

He rolled his shoulders, trying to get rid of the tension in his muscles. Diagon Alley had been a bit of a nightmare, and if he had anything to say about it he would never go shopping in public ever again. It was exhausting both physically and mentally, and everyone’s magic seemed to harshly grate at his own as time had gone on. And he didn’t even want to talk about the robe fittings or the uncomfortable time he had at Olivanders. Merlin, after not leaving Grimmauld Place for so long he had forgotten how taxing it was to go out.

There were no house elves in the Peverell Mansion, the place having been abandoned far too long for any elf to survive on the property magics alone, but he wasn’t against getting one or two just so he didn’t have to go out shopping. It was probably bad to fall back into old habits, but at this point he was just so done with people that he didn’t particularly care. He would call it a pretty big win that he didn’t turn tail and barricaded himself inside in the first ten minutes. 

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, still feeling a slight surprise at the lack of glasses, the phantom weight still present. While he would like nothing more than to flop face first into bed and rest, he unfortunately still had work to do. Ever since he had gone back to this time the thought of going back to Hogwarts had been weighing on his mind. He was a fifteen year old wizard, and there were, quite frankly, not many options for him besides going back to school until he was of age. The added legal documents of being a Hogwarts graduate would be a bonus, considering he had no history. 

That didn’t make the decision any easier, though. While people say time heals all wounds his particular wound from the Battle still felt open and raw, and the thought of going back to Hogwarts gave him a bittersweet feeling. He wasn’t sure how he would cope, going back to the place he loved but had lost so many loved ones in return. The images of their bodies and deaths still haunted him in his sleep, and he could only imagine how bad it would be if he were at their place of death. 

And then there was the problem of Tom Riddle, the baby Dark Lord and overall psychopath, who would also be attending Hogwarts at this time. He . . . honestly didn’t know what he would do about him. A part of him was tempted just to snuff the life out of him. It would solve a lot of future problems instantly and would probably be quite easy to pull off if he was sneaky enough. All he would have to do was say two measly little words and it would all be over. 

It was a really tempting idea, but he also knew that such drastic actions towards a key historical figure, no matter how terrible, would lead to a very uncertain future. If there was one thing he learnt while buried under books upon books about time travel, it was that messing with time was a very tricky and volatile thing. For all he knew he could be making a worse future than the one he had lived through. Maybe he would cause the apocalypse if he wasn’t careful.

It probably said something about him if his first impulse in regards to solving his problems was murder, but he was no longer a young nor naive boy. Not everything could be solved with words and love and kindness like Dumbledore had once led him to believe. 

He still wasn’t sure what his feelings were towards the old man who had once been a grandfather figure. He’d rather not think too hard about it. 

There was also the fact that Tom Riddle was a victim of circumstance. While it would have been much easier to think that he had always been Voldemort, that he had always been an insane megalomaniac who tortured and murdered anyone in his way like some brash Gryffindor, that just wasn’t the case. He had always been dark and manipulative, with looser morals than most even from a very young age, that couldn’t be denied, but he was also highly intelligent and cunning, trying to survive in a world that only expected the worst of him. He had the potential to become the Voldemort of the future, but potential was not something set in stone. 

Knowing all that still didn’t really help him figure out what to do about him, though. 

On a much lighter note, there was also the fact that he was a 26 year old man, and he didn’t quite fancy going back to the pains of schooling with homework and exams and papers, all the while feeling like he would blow up from stress. He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to write a proper essay, having not written one for so long. And, to his horror, he would probably have to  _ study  _ despite having gone through school before. 

Groaning, he went over to his desk and grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill. With a grim face, as if he were to be facing his own death sentence, he began to write a letter to Hogwarts. Hopefully whoever was the Headmaster at this time would buy whatever bullshit he would inevitably have to come up with in order to transfer there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Tom shows up in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, I know the whole 'Time Travel Harry Potter as Harry Peverell' and 'Inheritance Test at Gringotts' has been used and abused in so many Harry Potter fanfics already, but I like it and it meshes well with my MOD!Harry, so . . . oh well. Be glad I didn't give you a whole 10-page report on Harry's lineage and magics and inheritances.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on posting this chapter a week after the last chapter but then Tom's POV came along and decided to make my job a lot harder. His character is such a pain to write, and I'm not sure if I like how it is right now. Harry's character honestly feels a bit tricky to write as well . . . Oh well, I might make some minor edits later to refine things.

Harry looked at his surroundings, surprised to find that he was in Grimmauld Place once more. He wandered through the building, taking note of how the paint on the walls were faded and how the wood on the floor was rotting. He walked in and out of every room, which were strangely empty and full of a peculiar smell. When he reached the room with the Black Family Tapestry, he paused, taking in the lone figure that stood in the room. 

He smiled till his right cheek started to hurt when he realised who it was. ‘Sirius!’ His Godfather turned around in surprise before matching his smile and opening his arms as Harry ran towards his Godfather and jumped at him. Sirius’ grip on him was almost painfully tight, his facial hair scratching at his cheek irritatingly, but he was okay with that because the uncomfortably squeezing felt _real_. Being in his arms felt safe and warm and he never wanted to leave.

‘Harry,’ said Sirius, his voice terribly fond. 

He gave a contented sigh. ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be . . .’ his throat constricted and he looked away, unable to finish the sentence. _Aren’t you supposed to be dead?_

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

He went to look back at Sirius’ face but stopped at his own tan and scarred arms. He frowned, something seeming to scratch at the back of his head before he shook off the strange feeling and looked up into Sirius’ grey eyes. He smiled again. ‘I missed you. Merlin, I missed you so much.’ Missed him to the point that it hurt deep inside, another wound to add to the already impressive collection in his heart. He wondered how long it would take until his heart was nothing more than a bloody lump. 

‘I missed you too.’ Sirius moved to let go of him but Harry kept his grip on him tight, refusing to let go. Not when he just reunited with his Godfather. And that’s when he noticed that there was a small opening in the wall behind Sirius. A single grey eye stared back at him through the opening, bloodshot and milky and wider than a human eye should be. Harry’s breath caught, his body completely frozen in place. 

‘You’ve killed me,’ whispered whatever was in the wall, before the eye vanished and he heard a low scraping sound and bare feet walking away. 

He swallowed, one of his hands digging into Sirius' shoulder, eyes never moving from the small opening in the wall. ‘Did you hear that?’

Sirius winced slightly, most likely because Harry’s nails were poking into his flesh, but then concern appeared on his face. ‘Hear what?’

He continued to stare at the opening in the wall for a few more moments before looking back at Sirius and giving a tight smile. ‘It must’ve just been nothing.’ He let his arms drop to his sides. ‘So, what about . . .’ He cut himself off when he heard a low hiss behind him. He slowly turned around, his breath picking up in speed when he realised that there was another opening in the wall. The same lone grey eye stared back at him. 

‘Do you see that?’ There was no noise behind him. ‘Sirius?’ 

He turned around. ‘S-Sirius?’

Sirius’ eyes seemed to shift unnaturally before they too started to become bloodshot and milky and too wide for his face. His body swayed forward before his hands gripped Harry’s shoulders, supporting his weight. A sneer appeared on his face and before Harry’s eyes his face started to sag, the skin rapidly turning as grey as his eyes. 

‘You’ve killed me,’ whispered Sirius. ‘Ruined everything and killed me. Killed us all.’

And then suddenly there were many openings in the walls, and each one had a different eye staring out at him, bloodshot and milky and full of so much hatred. ‘You’ve killed us,’ was hissed and whispered throughout the room, a cacophony of familiar and unfamiliar voices, and he felt as if he were drowning under them. His ears buzzed.

‘You’ve killed us. You’ve killed us. You’ve killed us,’ they accused. 

He covered his ears but their voices pierced through, and he felt a warm liquid trickle down his neck, the faint scent of copper filling his nose. He clawed at his ears desperately despite the pain. ‘Stop stop _stop_ .’ He screamed that same word again and again till his voice was hoarse, but no matter how much he screamed they didn’t stop. They only seemed to get louder. Louder and louder and _louder_ -

Harry woke with a gasp, rolling over and tumbling to the floor in a tangle of sheets. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the floor as images continued to flash before his eyes even while awake. A sob ripped through him despite his best efforts to hold it back and he curled in on himself, feeling the thumping of his heart in his neck. 

Nightmares had been frequent the past couple of weeks, but they had been nothing compared to the one he just had tonight. He brought a shaky hand to his ear, feeling as if he could still hear their accusations echo throughout the room. He should’ve expected it, really. It was the night before he would return to Hogwarts and he had been tense all day. 

He was not looking forward to his return. Dreaded it, even. Knowing his luck he would have a complete meltdown in the middle of the Great Hall or something equally as disastrous.

He muttered a quiet ‘ _Lumos,_ ’ letting the light of the soft blue orb wash over the room in hopes of chasing off the darkness. He muttered ‘ _Lumos,_ ’ again, willing the glowing orb to become bigger and brighter, and yet all around the shadows still lingered, stretching across the walls and floor as if it were trying to swallow everything whole. 

He concentrated on his breathing, on every inhale and exhale, trying to keep his mind from wandering to other things; darker things. But just like the shadows around him the dark thoughts stretched out their hands to embrace him in a mockery of comfort. He stared into the glowing orb, allowing the brightness to burn at his eyes until there was a dull throbbing behind them. He looked back at the floor, lights still dancing before his eyes. 

He didn’t dare look at the walls. Not yet, at least. 

*

Harry tried to keep his breathing even as he stepped onto Platform 9¾ and stared at the Hogwarts Express. He had set out rather late, a small part of him wishing that he would simply miss the train and thus not have to go to Hogwarts, but he had eventually convinced himself to come before the train left him behind. 

His hand moved over to his right side where his charmed bag was and lightly patted it. It was somehow reassuring for him, to be able to fit his most important belongings in the palm of his hand. 

Swallowing, he stepped onto the train. 

The train’s interior was both achingly familiar and alien to him. He never realised how much he had paid attention to the interior of the Hogwarts Express before, but now that he was here in the past all his memories of boarding this very train each year surfaced with startling clarity. For the most part everything remained the same as in the future; same layout, same colours, same decor. But then there were the little things; minute differences so small that they weren’t jarring but gave off a sense of wrongness nonetheless. 

He couldn’t help but feel as if everything around him wasn’t real; merely something conjured up in his mind, a lonely and broken man’s plummet into madness. 

A loud whistle sounded and the train began to move. 

Having been so late to board the train he doubted that there were any empty compartments left. He had no wish to ride with anyone, however, so quickly headed over to the very back of the train where he knew there was extra storage for baggage. It was fairly small and didn’t contain many items, most students preferring to keep their bags with them. 

Settling down on one of the boxes, his back against the wall, he closed his eyes. He would not sleep, though. He wasn’t quite ready to sleep yet. Maybe tomorrow, or in a couple days . . . just not too soon. 

*

‘I still can’t believe that stupid Mudblood’s nerve. Did that bint really think she could sit with us on the train? She doesn’t even deserve to _look_ at us with such filthy blood,’ complained Mulciber, his voice a little louder than appropriate. A small smile full of malice worked its way onto his face, his eyes no doubt directed towards the Mudblood in question. ‘But she’ll learn. I’ll make sure of it.’

Tom hummed, listening half heartedly. More often than not what came out of Mulciber’s mouth were complaints about filthy Mudbloods and Half-Bloods, so he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to whatever drivel came out of his mouth next. He was lucky his father had connections with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or Tom wouldn’t be humouring him at all. He would have to have a little talk with him later, however, about his conduct in such a public space as the Great Hall. He had an image to uphold, afterall, and he very well couldn’t do that if it looked as if he kept company with such openly prejudiced people. 

‘Please, Mulciber, have some decorum,’ interjected Abraxas. ‘The last thing we need is for Dumbledore to look at us any closer than he already is.’ 

‘Don’t be like that, Abraxas. We all know you were thinking the same thing.’

Abraxas looked around before saying lowly, ‘Yes, but I don’t go stating my thoughts like a Gryffindor.’

Mulciber’s face turned dark and ugly. ‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like, Mulciber.’ He cast a wary look at Tom. ‘And you would do well to remember Riddle’s status before you go speaking your thoughts so carelessly.’

Tom looked at the two out of the corner of his eye, a displeased frown on his face. He did not appreciate being reminded of his unknown heritage and unfortunate name. Those who follow him may defer to him now, but he would never forget how they first treated him due to his shameful muggle surname. 

While he could have revealed his Parseltongue ability as soon as he knew that the ability was connected to Salazar Slytherin, it was empowering to have all these haughty pure-bloods bend to the will of someone they thought lesser. How proud these pure-bloods must be, willingly following under the lead of the Mudblood they once disdained so much, all the while spewing out their blood purity beliefs. Their hypocrisy made him want to laugh. They were merely sheep who believed themselves to be wolves. 

‘I didn’t know you two were still first years,’ said Tom, the implied message clear. 

The two froze before looking over at Tom. A neutral mask overtook Abraxis’s face and his posture relaxed. ‘My apologies, Tom.’ He slightly dipped his head in deference. 

‘Sorry, Riddle.’ There was still a small scowl on Mulciber’s face. 

The displeased frown on his face became a little deeper. Yes, he would certainly be having a talk with Mulciber after this. He required . . . disciplining. Just because he was one of the first members of the Knights of Walpurgis didn’t mean Tom would overlook his behaviour. While a part of his Inner Circle Mulciber was still one of the lowest ranked members, and for good reason. He certainly had the unfortunate tendency to display Gryffindor-like behavior and lacked some much needed respect. 

A hush fell over the students as the new wave of first years came in, and his eyes immediately zoomed in on a particular figure in the back of the group. There seemed to be a new transfer student. Despite being a slight thing, pale and thin shouldered, he still stood out from the first years like a lone crane amongst larks, drawing curious eyes from both teachers and students alike. His presence was hardly a surprise, considering that Grindelwald was at large and only escalating in his attacks, but it was still a rarity. 

The transfer student looked like he had seen better days, the darkness under his eyes marring what would otherwise be considered a pleasing face. He wrung his hands nervously, glancing around the hall with a deathly pale face before staring down at the floor determinately. He shifted back and forth on his feet, looking even more shy and frightened than the first years Mudbloods. 

Tom internally sneered. He would most likely go into Hufflepuff with such a weak character. Or maybe even Ravenclaw, if not Hufflepuff. He was much too soft for the Slytherins and much too skittish for the Gryffindors. He looked like the sort that couldn’t hurt a fly and would comfort crying children. By all rights the transfer student shouldn’t have been of any note to Tom, even with his haunting green eyes, and yet there was something about him that made him unable to look away; something lurking inside the transfer student, dark and calling to him. 

He watched as the first years were called one by one until only the transfer student remained. 

‘Now, I’m sure you’ve noticed we have a transfer student. Unfortunate circumstances have led him to transfer here for his fifth year, and I hope that everyone will work hard to make him feel welcome,’ announced Headmaster Dippet.

‘Hadrian White, please come up!’

‘Brilliant, another Mudblood,’ muttered Mulciber. 

The transfer student timidly walked to the stool, his eyes still glued to the floor, and took a seat. The Sorting Hat was soon plopped on his head and everyone watched him, some with bated breaths and others with disinterest or even disdain. However, as the seconds crawled by and reached over five minutes more people started to shift with interest. The transfer student was officially a Hatstall. How interesting.

His initial impression was apparently wrong, though maybe only partially. His wary appearance really did make it seem like he would’ve gone into Hufflepuff immediately. Though maybe the hat was deliberating between Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw . . .

‘Slytherin!’ exclaimed the hat, and Tom paused in his train of thoughts. That . . . that he did not expect. Tom narrowed his eyes minutely. It seemed that the transfer student would require more observing. 

*

Harry walked to the stool, keeping his eyes firmly on his feet with some unidentifiable feeling in his gut. The weight of everyone’s stares was nearly unbearable, and the quick glance around when he initially entered the castle nearly sent him running, but at least the old magic of Hogwarts was warm and pleasant. He had never realised before how much sheer magic the castle itself had. It was many more times greater than the Hogwarts Express, and it felt almost alive. 

Much like he had expected it hurt to be back, but in a strange sort of way. He felt as if he were submerged in water, the urge to breath nonexistent in his mind despite his body’s ugent protests. The pain and sadness was a dull throbbing thing in his throat and chest, as if he wasn’t the one experiencing the emotions at all but somehow just a spectator of everything. It probably wasn’t a good sign that he felt so detached at the moment; numb. He would probably have a mental breakdown later on. 

The Sorting Hat was placed on his head and he closed his eyes, shutting out his surroundings. 

_‘My my, what do we have here?’_ the hat’s amused voice sounded in his head. _‘Fascinating. A time traveller, and yet something more. There are memories in your mind that are hidden even from myself. Quite fascinating. Oh, I do enjoy being surprised. After a certain amount of time things become so bland. There’s a limit to finding something interesting in the minds of children, unfortunately.’_

He didn’t remember the hat being so lively last time. 

_‘And you are no longer an eleven year old.’_

He couldn’t argue with that. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t the best conversationalist, nevermind when he was at the age of eleven, so it was really no wonder. And before Hogwarts his life had been very mundane, consisting of chores and primary school as the Dursleys, which no doubt made for some very boring memories to watch. 

He had forgotten that the hat could read thoughts not directed at him, though, not just his memories. He probably should keep some sort of notebook. Even if Occlumency helped to organise the mind and memories, making remembering things much easier, it didn’t give him a photographic memory, so there were bound to be details that slipped through the cracks. It would be bad if one of those lost details was crucial. 

_Put me in Gryffindor, please_. 

_‘I don’t think Gryffindor would suit you very much, I’m afraid. Not anymore, at least.’_

_What do you mean by that?_

_‘Slytherin would suit you much better. It would’ve suited you well in your own time too, though much more so now.’_

_Oh . . . is that so?_

_‘While you certainly are pretty brave, life has tempered you; you’ve come to the realisation that sometimes caution and patience is the better choice. You are also quite ambitious; changing the future is no small task. And while you don’t have the most clear of plans, which is admittedly not the most Slytherin, the House will certainly aid you best in your endeavours.’_

The hat paused, letting him digest what it had just said.

_‘I would also argue that you have a Slytherin cunning to you. You are not traditionally smart or booksmart, but you know how to survive.’_

Harry gave a snort. _Cunning?_ People have referred to him as many things, but cunning certainly wasn’t one of them. Always too brash, too emotional, too naive, too stupid - the list went on. He couldn’t deny that he was more experienced in surviving than most, though. 

_‘Yes, cunning. Deep inside you are quite aware of that, even if you don’t see it now.’_

A feeling of sorrow entered his heart, still dull and distant like everything else at the moment. _I . . . I can’t be a Gryffindor again?_

He wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. It wasn’t that he was against Slytherin; not anymore, at least. He had gotten over his prejudice of Slytherins for the most part, and would no longer equate evil and cowardice with the House just because of certain problematic individuals. War and death made silly schoolyard rivalries seem rather petty and stupid. But he has always been a Gryffindor; has always prided in it. He couldn’t help but feel that he had become a stranger, and not just because he had a new body; the idea of being put in another House made that feeling all the more strong. 

It felt like he would be betraying himself. 

The Sorting Hat sighed. _‘I know you are afraid that you are no longer who you used to be, but think, can you really go back to that? After all that you have lived through? Do you_ want _to go back to what you used to be during your Hogwarts days?’_

He stopped and thought about it. Thought about going back to being outgoing and brash, doing what people expected of him and being shunned when he didn’t. Thought about always trying to be the hero, always so brave and never allowed to be afraid, even when all he wanted to do was to crawl back into the darkness of his cupboard under the stairs where no one but the spiders and moths would bother him; where he could have wonderful fantasies about someone coming to save _him_ instead. 

The hat was right. He . . . didn’t want to go back to that; didn’t want to be a hero anymore. Call him selfish, but he didn’t care about saving the world, only wanted to make sure everyone he lost _lived_. Scarily enough, he thought that even if he ended up making the world burn, became the new villain, he would be okay with that if it meant everyone he cared about was alive and well. 

_‘I see you’ve made up your mind. I’m glad to see that going into Slytherin will no longer weigh too heavily on your mind._

_‘As for your plans for changing the future, I know you’ve already done plenty of research on time travel, so I don’t believe I have to tell you how dangerous and volatile messing with time is. But I still ask you to be careful, and to trust yourself when you have doubts. Good luck.’_

‘Slytherin!’

The hat was removed from his head and he opened his eyes. He was immediately met with polite, if not unenthusiastic, clapping from the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. There was no clapping from Gryffindor or Slytherin. Getting off the stool he stiffly walked to the Slytherin table, making sure to keep his posture straight and to school his face into as much of a blank mask as he could. He honestly didn’t know much about Slytherins, but what he did know was that showing any weakness would be as good as a death sentence socially.

For a fraction of a second his eyes met Tom Riddle’s, piercing green to dark blue, and time seemed to slow. He could feel it, Riddle’s magic, so dark and tightly controlled and already so powerful. It was no wonder he was at the top of the food chain in Slytherin. There was an attractive force to his magic that felt hard to resist, and all he wanted to do was reach out and touch - Harry immediately broke eye contact at that thought, sitting down at the very edge of the table, unease heavy in his throat. There was clearly some sort of hierarchy in the seating arrangements that he didn’t wish to disturb and ruffle everyone’s feathers.

He sat as far on the edge of the end seat as possible. Being next to so many students was uncomfortable, to say the least, and he resisted the urge to hunch in on himself. 

He avoided interacting with the small first year beside him and stared at the plates and plates of food instead, still slightly sickened at the mere sight of so much food. It had always seemed like such a waste to him, the amount of food far too excessive even if it were for hundreds of students and the teachers. He reached out a hand and grabbed a treacle tart. Hermione would have scolded him for eating dessert first, especially now that he was technically a growing boy who had recently been terminally ill, but it had been a while since he had treacle tart and he wouldn’t deny himself his favourite dessert. Besides, he didn’t have much of an appetite. He took a bite, enjoying the flavour. 

‘Pardon me,’ said someone behind him, their voice smooth and vaguely familiar.

Startling slightly, a sneaking suspicion that he knew who was behind him, he turned his head. Sure enough, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the baby Dark Lord, stood there in all his glory, a slight smile on his face that Harry just knew was fake. ‘I’m Tom Riddle, the Slytherin Prefect. I will be the one in charge of getting you orientated. Would you mind coming to sit with me?’ It didn’t sound like a request despite the friendly veneer. 

He gave a small fake smile in return. ‘Oh, sure. Nice to meet you, Riddle.’ Standing up he followed him to the centre of the table. Everyone’s eyes were on the two of them.

‘Do you mind moving over a bit for White, Mulciber?’ 

‘What? You want to put a Mudblood in my spot?’ 

He frowned slightly. He knew prejudices about blood purity was more prevalent in the past, but that didn’t make it any more tolerable for him. ‘I’m a half-blood,’ corrected Harry. While technically the body he took over was a muggle turned muggleborn, it was safer to pass himself off as a half-blood and would make it so no one questioned how he was the Heir Peverell if he ever publicly announced it. There was also a part of him that still wanted to cling to what he used to be. 

‘Mudblood, half-blood, there’s not much difference between the two . . .’

‘Mulciber.’ Riddle’s voice was edged with steel, and despite not raising his voice it still carried the same effect. Mulciber was quickly cowed, having paled in visible fright and hastily moved to the side. It was actually kind of funny, how scared of Riddle he seemed. Riddle then looked back at Harry, that same fake smile sliding back onto his lips, the perfect image of a gentleman, and gestured at the now open spot. 

He warily sat down, Riddle smoothly following suit next to him. It felt pretty awkward, and what little appetite he had had completely disappeared. 

‘Not hungry?’ asked Riddle, the concern on his face good enough to fool most people. It was too bad for him that Harry knew how much of a good actor he was.

‘Not really. I ate on the train.’

‘That’s good.’ A moment. ‘May I see your schedule?’

He nodded his head. That was one interesting thing he had found out. The amount of classes offered was much more versatile compared to the future, which was a shame. He might have actually applied himself in school more if he felt he had the option to choose subjects he was actually interested in. While it would have been easy to tailor his curriculum to his strengths, only choosing subjects he really knows with no electives, he felt like he should at least choose classes he’d want to be in. 

He knew Hermione would have been green with envy about the classes he could take, and he would feel a bit guilty not taking advantage of the opportunity he had. It would be more work, but he felt like he owed her that much. He should probably add ‘make sure all Hogwarts electives stay available in the future’ to his list of things to do. 

He pulled out his schedule and handed it to Riddle. 

‘Hmm, we share all classes except one, so you may follow me to those classes. Orion shares your class in Healing Magics, so he can be the one to accompany you there.’ Harry just nodded his head, choosing not to outright disagree with Riddle quite yet. He didn’t need to antagonise the baby Dark Lord on his very first day. 

‘So, White, why’d you transfer here?’ asked a boy with hazel eyes. 

‘My parents died,’ stated Harry bluntly. He had gone over his cover story probably a thousand times by now, having chosen to stick closely to the truth. Less chances of messing things up. Hopefully. ‘We travelled a lot so my father and mother homeschooled me. Obviously they can’t homeschool me anymore.’ He studiously pushed away the snarky voice in his head that wanted to say he would bring them back from the dead but unfortunately he misplaced their dead bodies somewhere. 

‘Good going, Callum,’ said a girl with long, dark curls. She turned to look at him. ‘I apologise for him, he unfortunately lacks any diplomatic skills.’

‘No, it’s fine. I have . . . come to terms with what happened. Somewhat.’ His mind drifted off, his eyes seeing something no one else could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I feel like watching so many horror games has influenced me a bit, but then again it was a nightmare I was writing out, so it had to feel at least a little bit nightmare-ish.
> 
> This chapter is also not my most favourite . . .


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, this took so long to write, and I didn't intend for it to go in this direction but it did so oh well. It's a bit shorter than the other chapters, but that might change 'cause I feel like there's something missing to this chapter that I want to fill but don't know what it is yet. However, I didn't want to sit on it for too long like I tend to do (otherwise before I knew it years would have passed). 
> 
> Also, I do feel I have to say that Tom is not the nicest person, but he does know how to act like a nice and good person. Don't be fooled by his current actions of being 'nice' and 'caring.'

**Chapter 3**

Harry followed the rest of the Slytherin students out of the Great Hall, moving through familiar hallways and ever-shifting stairs, the echo of young voices bouncing off ancient walls sending a sharp yet bitter warmth into his chest. Abruptly he stopped, feeling as if he had suddenly come up for air after drowning, his stomach curling inwards as something burned at the base of his throat. 

He turned back to stare at the steps he had just passed. The other Slytherins were still walking forwards, a great herd of black and green robes moving in tandem, the distance between him and the group increasing until they disappeared around a corner. It almost felt symbolic, somehow, as if the strands of fate that looped around Harry had frayed and snapped, dropping to the ground as the other half drifted away. 

He still didn’t move; it was as if his feet had become stone and merged with the ground. His vision went hazy and then suddenly he was looking down at a familiar body, the upper half bent on the floor and the legs bent at awkward angles on the steps. Red pooled on the floor, still fresh, the viscous liquid slowly making its way towards his feet. 

Harry made an aborted motion to step back, his breath quickening.

His breath hitched. That body . . . it was Remus. Remus had died there. He hadn’t been there to witness it personally but he certainly remembered coming across his crumpled body at the bottom of the stairs. It had been the Killing Curse, they had said. He had been hit at the top and his body had come tumbling down like a puppet without strings, bones shattering and limbs contorting on the way down. He must’ve hit his head on the way down too; there had been far too much blood to say otherwise. 

And yet, Harry's first thought upon seeing his dead body had not been of grief; had not been of mourning. No, Harry had just been glad that Remus’ death had been quick and painless; that it was a good thing that he went to join Tonks and her unborn child in the afterlife. It had been an awful thought to have of his former mentor; to have such profound relief at his death, but he had had those thoughts nevertheless. 

He wondered when he had grown so callous. When he had warped from a young innocent boy with only thoughts of magic and friends into whatever deformed and twisted creature he had become. Was it when he was on the run? Cold and scared and just _so so_ _tired_ ; tired of Voldemort, and the war, and constantly having to look over his shoulder, and just so tired of the Wizarding World as a whole. 

Was he a bad person if he sometimes thought about walking out of that Merlin-be-damned tent, Hermione and Ron slumbering away none the wiser, and never coming back, leaving the Wizarding World -  _ all his friends and family _ \- to the mercy of Voldemort and the Death Eaters? Would it have been mercy to leave them all to die then when they were destined to die later anyway? Maybe no hope would’ve been better than false hope. Better than believing that Harry Potter would be able to win the war  _ and  _ bring everyone out alive, only to be brutally crushed by the reality that he was no hero. 

Hah. What Saviour of the Wizarding World? He couldn’t save anyone. Not Hermione, not Ron, not Sirius, not Remus, not Neville, not Snape (that bloody, self-sacrificing  _ bastard _ ), not - not anyone. Not a single damn one. And who was to say that he could save anyone this time? Familiar faces swirled around in his mind, taunting him, mocking him. Always there to remind him of his failures. Would it ever end? 

He gave a broken laugh, sinking to the floor. Remus’ body still lay there in front of him, the head bent unnaturally towards him, empty brown eyes accusing. Going back in time to save everyone - what a fools dream. Did he seriously think that he could do it? After he fucked everything up the first time? What was he thinking? He should’ve known better. 

‘. . . Hadrian? Hadrian, are you alright?’ A hand touched his shoulder, sending a slight shock of electricity through him that he straight to the bone.

Harry slowly came back to the present, his spiraling thoughts finally coming to a halt. The image before him had vanished, and despite everything having been a fabrication of his mind that sweet metallic scent of blood still lingered. He slowly lifted his head, meeting the dark eyes - like a lagoon of inferi, his mind whispered - of Tom Riddle. Harry licked his lips and swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the sudden rolling going on in his stomach, then stood up. He took in a deep, shuddering breath.

He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah . . . yeah, I’m fine.’

Riddle’s face was unreadable. ‘Are you certain? Do you want to go to the infirmary?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No no, I said I’m fine. Really.’ 

Riddle stared at him a little longer before, saying, ‘Follow me, then. We’ve fallen behind the main group going to the Slytherin Dungeon.’ He then turned on his heel and began walking. 

Harry took one last glance at the steps before following after him.

‘The password is  _ Aeternum _ ,’ Riddle said when they arrived at the entrance of the Slytherin Dungeon. 

Upon entering Harry glanced to his right and then left, taking in the Slytherin Common Room with great interest. While it was true that he had been in the Slytherin common room before, when he had had to interact with tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum all the while pretending to be a certain snobbish, blond pure-blood, he had hardly had any time to truly take a look around, so concerned with not being caught that he had been. 

The common room, with moody-green lamps and gothic-style architecture, coupled with the blue-green water of the Great Lake out the windows, certainly gave the room a more gloomy and refined aesthetic, much like Peverell Manor actually, now that he thought about it. It was certainly very nice, if not a tad bit too pure-blood for his tastes, but it also felt dark and damp and  _ cold _ even with the fireplace blazing. He already missed the warm and cosy feeling of the Gryffindor Common Room. 

He could appreciate green, even say that he liked it, considering his own mother’s eyes were green. He was long past the phase of being obsessed with red and gold and all things ‘Gryffindor,’ but, call him sentimental, the fiery red and gold of his old House would always hold a special spot in his heart. 

Tearing his eyes away from the surroundings he looked towards the rest of the Slytherins. A slight chill went up his spine. They were all standing around and waiting in the common room, eyes watching as he and Riddle approached them. There were no conversations between the Slytherins as they all stared like statues. It was obvious that they had been waiting for Riddle before beginning anything. It was honestly a bit impressive that he already had a pretty firm handle on all of the Slytherins despite only being fifteen. 

Riddle stopped in front of the group. ‘Now, there are a few important things I must tell you,’ started Riddle. Harry shuffled his feet so that he was standing with the rest of the Slytherins. ‘I will not sugar coat it. Slytherin is the most hated house of Hogwarts.’ He gave a heavy sigh, looking resigned. Harry just wondered where he learnt such good acting skills. It was no wonder he was the ‘Golden Boy’ of Slytherin; very few could see past his polite and charming mask. 

He would have to be extra vigilant around him, that’s for sure, lest he be swept away by his charms like everyone else. 

‘We are always looked at with suspicion and distrust purely due to this House’s reputation. It doesn’t matter if you’re a light witch or wizard, or if you have a heart of gold, many will think that you’re evil or dark. But I want you all to remember, there is no such thing as good or evil, only power and those too weak to see it.’

He paused, looking at all of them pointedly. Harry wrly thought that he should clap and see what kind of face Riddle would make. 

‘As such there is an extra rule that must be followed, which is that what happens in Slytherin shall remain in Slytherin. Any problems or fights will be settled within our House, and more serious matters will be taken up with a Prefect or the Head of House, Professor Slughorn. Likewise, because Slytherin mainly consists of pure-blood students, many of whom belong to dark or grey families, the practise of less . . .  _ common  _ magics will not be reported so long as you remain discreet. We do not condemn any branches of magic here.

‘Now that that’s out of the way, the boys dorm is through the left corridor and the girls dorm is through the right corridor. You will see your name on the door of the room you’re assigned to.’

Harry watched as the majority of the students filed out of the common room to their respective dorms, a conflicted expression on his face. He wondered how many of these children were the parents or grandparents of Death Eaters, or even Death Eaters themselves; if any of their children or grandchildren were responsible for the deaths of his family and friends. 

It . . . certainly wouldn’t be ethical to outright kill them because someone from one or two generations down the line would kill someone dear to him. But it still didn’t stop the little voice in the back of his head from whispering to him, telling him that he should just kill them all; stop the problem at its roots; that their death’s would be for the greater good. 

He flinched. When had he started to sound like Dumbledore?

No, he wouldn’t do that; he wouldn’t kill children in the name of vengeance disguised as righteous justice. But maybe . . . maybe when they were older; when they were no longer children; if they proved to be enemies that needed to be stopped - he shook his head almost violently, tightly clenching his right hand into a fist. Shame and disappointment stabbed at him. 

Was this who he was now? He spent an entire lifetime to stop Voldemort and his followers and now he was no better, wantonly scheming to murder people because of who their children will become. Even letting the thought of murdering children poison his mind. 

‘Are you sure you’re alright? You seem awfully absent-minded today.’ Riddle interrupted, moving to stand right in front of him. ‘I wonder what it is that has you so occupied,’ he added, more to himself than Harry. 

Just as he was going to open his mouth, his response on the tip of his tongue, his stomach gave another roll, and that’s when his body decided that now was a good time to throw up. All over Tom-Fucking-Riddle’s perfectly shined shoes. Freezing, his heart pounding so furiously he feared it would break right through his sternum, he slowly moved his head back up to glance at Riddle, whose pupils had dilated as he stood perfectly still, not a single muscle twitching, much like a viber before they struck their prey. 

Harry honestly wouldn’t blame him if he straight out murdered him for that. 

*

Harry gave a sigh as he was checked over by Madam Stonewallow, a very cheery but straightforward woman, making sure to keep Riddle, who was watching him from against the wall, in his peripheral vision. He was wearing a different pair of shoes, just as perfectly polished as the last if not even shinier than the ones before. The pair he had unfortunately ruined were probably already discarded or maybe even outright burned out of existence, never to be seen from or even mentioned again.

He sighed. Not even a day in and he already landed himself in the Hospital Wing, it was a new record. He might’ve even laughed if he weren’t so worried that he’d irrefutably landed himself in Riddle’s to-murder list. 

Way to go Harry, he thought grumpily, you’ve gone and provoked the resident psychopath on day one. 

The matron cleared her throat. ‘Well, ye don’t appear to be havin’ any ailments, but ye look mighty stressed so I’m goin’ ta give ye a stomach soother and Draught of Peace just in case.’ She handed him a turquoise potion and a yellowish potion. ‘Blue one’s for stress, yellow one’s for yer stomach. Don’t forget ta drink them if yer feelin’ less than stellar.’ She gave a pointed look, as if she knew all about his sordid history of being an absolutely rotten patient and she was not amused. ‘Now off ye go.’ 

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Harry before exiting, Riddle right on his heels. Harry glanced behind a bit nervously. He was under no illusions that Riddle couldn’t make his life at Hogwarts hell. It didn’t matter that he was technically a grown adult who had been in a war; didn’t matter that he probably knows more Death magic than any other Witch or Wizard in the world. Merlin save him from teenage Dark Lords. 

Harry cleared his throat. ‘I . . . I’m sorry about . . . you know . . .’ he finished lamely. And he really was. Future insane arch-nemesis or not, throwing up on someone made a part of him shrivel up and die inside from mortification. Honestly, Voldemort probably could have tried to get rid of him by embarrassing him to death rather than straight out trying to murder him. He might have actually succeeded in the war, then. 

There was a slight pause before Riddle answered curtly, ‘It’s fine.’

Harry internally winced at that. Considering how Riddle had been acting before such a response might as well have been him shouting. 

The rest of the walk back to the Slytherin Dungeons was done in silence, and Harry was perfectly fine with that. Sure, it was a bit awkward, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to talk to Riddle any further lest he give him any more reasons to murder him. The moment they reached the Slytherin entrance it was only his pride that kept him from running straight to his room and shutting himself away forever. 

*

Harry’s eyes snapped open, his hands clawing at the sheets, but he didn’t utter a single sound. His neck was damp with cold sweat, and he could feel a drop of liquid rolling down until it made its home in the dip of his collar bone. He waited for his breathing even out and his heart to slow down.

He let out a whoosh of air, and as he sat up he was struck with the strange feeling that he was made of some ancient metal that had rusted and atrophied, his bones creaking and scraping in protest at such a simple motion, longing for an eternal rest that would never come. 

He blinked slowly, sleep stubbornly sticking to his eyelashes. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep after a nightmare. He slightly opened the curtains and peaked outside. His eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness at the moment so he could make out the dark outlines of his roommates' beds, the curtains closed shut. He leant back onto his hands, letting the small gap in the curtain fall closed once more. 

He wished that he had his invisibility cloak with him. It made sneaking around Hogwarts so much easier in his youth. He paused at that, and then couldn’t help but give a small smile. Well, he supposed he was technically in his youth once more, if only in body. Though he still wasn’t sure how he would function around so many teenagers. 

Suddenly he felt a slight tingling sensation on his hip. Furrowing his brows in confusion he sat up and reached down with his hand, feeling at the skin and pressing at the sharp jut of his hip bone. Upon feeling nothing wrong he muttered a quick  _ lumos _ before glancing back down. He made a noise of surprise. 

There on his skin was a small, golden tattoo of the symbol in the Peverell Heirship ring, and on his lap lay the invisibility cloak. He reached out and let the familiar sleekness of the fabric run over his fingers, as if to make sure that the thing in front of him was indeed real. His eyes narrowed. He was a bit confused, considering the cloak appeared out of nowhere and he was suddenly sporting a tattoo, but then he remembered that Death had mentioned something about the cloak and stone and wand.’ And . . . the tingling sensation had happened before, hadn’t it? When he was told to call upon the Elder Wand. 

‘ _ Death _ ,’ he hissed, but there was no answer. When he called a few more times and nothing happened he gave up. He supposed it would be silly of him to think that an entity such as Death would have better things to do than wait on him hand and foot and come whenever he was called, Master of Death or not. Such a title made him want to scoff. As if he could possibly be the master of such a higher being or entity or whatever one calls Death. He was certain that it was just a part of another plan or scheme that involved him. He didn’t know if Death has an agenda,  _ could  _ have an agenda, but it certainly felt like it did. 

Kicking off his blankets he covered himself with the invisibility cloak and crept out of the room, making sure to cast a spell to mask any sounds he made on the way. The halls were rather dark despite the many lamps lining the walls, the small, dancing flames fighting valiantly against the darkness which crept closer and closer to swallow up the soft, orange glow. 

A flame on the right suddenly shuddered, swaying back and forth in agony, locked in an invisible battle of wills, before flickering out. 

As he wandered with no particular destination in mind his mind became a bit fuzzy, light and airy and as if he were in danger of falling down at any moment. When his vision cleared he tripped, his foot having crashed into something. Groaning, he turned around only to gag, his hand tightening around the fabric of the invisibility cloak in a pitiful attempt to stop it’s trembling. 

A body lay on the ground, slightly bloated and with a patchwork of purple on the skin. The neck was full of multiple punctures and completely mutilated, a strange, yellowish liquid oozing out alongside the blood. The eyes were still open, hazel-green staring back at him and it was at that moment he realised that it was  _ Neville _ .

‘Am I . . . dreaming?’ he asked, voice barely a hoarse whisper. 

Yes, he . . . he must be dreaming. Neville had died back at the Battle of Hogwarts after Harry had foolishly sent him on that death mission to kill Nagini. Really, what had been going through his mind, then? He should’ve known better. Nagini was Voldemort’s precious familiar and horcrux, of course she would be well protected. 

And even if it really was Neville’s body he couldn’t possibly be back in 1942 with him, right? He had yet to even be born, nevermind die. The hazel-green eyes blinked almost lazily, and Harry froze, eyes wide and he didn’t dare look away. When the eyes blinked again he slowly got to his feet and began to back up, still keeping his eyes trained on the body like a hawk. 

When he managed to put some decent distance between him and the body he quickly turned on his heel and quickened his steps, and then he broke out into a complete sprint when he was around the corner. He still didn’t quite know where he was going, or even where he wanted to go, but it seemed that his body knew so he let his feet carry him the whole way. As long as it was away from . . . everything he would be fine if his feet led him to Aragog’s nest - though that didn’t even exist now, did it? 

Before he knew it he was stepping outside, taking in the warm air that seemed to press against his skin. There was no doubt that there would be a thunderstorm later on. He frowned at that thought, his hand unconsciously raising up to touch a lightning bolt scar that was no longer there. The scar was a potent reminder of the many things that had gone wrong in his life, from his parents’ death to his suffocating fame to Voldemort and horcruxes, and yet he still terribly missed it. It had been a vital part of who he was, a symbol and a reminder, and without it he couldn’t help but feel a bit lost. Just another thing that separated him from the Harry Potter he used to be. 

He made his way to the Great Lake, careful down the uneven slopes, until he was at the edge of a pier that wasn’t any different from the future, and took in the darkening sky in blissful silence. But no matter how much he tried his mind couldn’t help but drift back to what had just happened. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, his heart beating to the rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings. Looking down he could see that his hands were still slightly shaking. 

‘Coward,’ he spat, and then he tightly grasped at his hands until his joints creaked and his hands trembled for an entirely different reason. Everything . . . everything had just been a trick of the imagination; just his mind conjuring up horrors because of something like stress or anxiety from being back at Hogwarts. Nothing more. It was  _ stupid  _ to get so worked up over something so silly. It would all stop very soon, surely. He just had to get used to being back at Hogwarts, that’s all.

A splash sounded from the left. 

Turning his head warily he saw that there was a girl sitting by the shore on a rock, her bare feet submerged in the water. Another splash, and then he realised that it was due to her kicking her feet. Her skin was a dark-tan colour and yet there was a paleness - a bloodlessness - to her, although it was difficult to make out clearly under the moonlight. She was not wearing a Hogwarts uniform, but it definitely didn’t look like anything a muggle would wear, even in the 40s. 

Turning his body slightly towards her he tried calling out. ‘Hello?’ 

At first there was no answer, and the girl continued to kick at the water as if she hadn’t heard him at all, a sunny smile on her lips. But when he called out again she stopped and tilted her head before looking over at him, her black hair swaying in the wind. The smile on her lips became bigger, stretching so wide at the edges that he almost feared that they would split.

‘ _ Down to the depths I go _ ,’ sang the girl in a low croon, so soft he could barely make out the words, ‘ _ the only place that I know _ .  _ Follow along with me _ ,  _ into this land-locked sea. _ ’ She let out a high-pitched giggle before it petered out into a hacking cough, her slight frame hunching over. When her coughing fit stopped she straightened out once more. ‘ _ Follow me, follow me, swallow down this murky water, my naughty little marauder.’ _

Harry froze. ‘Marauder?’ he whispered. When she didn’t respond, continuing to sing with that painful smile, he repeated himself, this time much louder. ‘Wait! Did you say marauder?’

But she only continued to sing. 

_ Follow me, follow me, my naughty little marauder.  _


End file.
